Our story today comes from Scotland, written down by a master of adventure named Robert Louis Stevenson in the 19th century. It is a tale that has been told in many ways, by many voices, across many years, but its heart remains as wild and salt swept as the rocky cliffs where it begins.
If you had walked into the parlor of the Admiral Benbow Inn on any windy night during my boyhood, you would have found the air thick with the smell of stale sea coal, wet woolen cloaks, and cheap tobacco. The inn stood on the cliffs of Black Hill Cove, a lonely, storm-beaten stretch of the English coast, where the waves roared against the rocks like distant cannon fire.
My mother and father ran the place, but because my father was sick and growing weaker by the day, most of the hard work fell to me, Jim Hawkins. It was a quiet life until the day the old captain arrived. He was a heavy, brown-skinned man with a dirty blue coat and a jagged white scar across one cheek. I can still see him looking around the cove and whistling to himself as he blew through his nose like a fog horn. He carried his brass telescope under his arm, and behind him on a handbarrow came his heavy sea chest.
He was a silent man by day, but by night, after he had drunk too much rum, he would sit by the fire and sing his old wild sea song. 15 men on the dead man's chest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. Drink and the devil had done for the rest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum. The neighbors loved him in a frightened sort of way, for his stories of the Spanish main, of wild storms, and of wicked hanging places. But he lived in a constant trembling terror. Soon after his arrival, he took me aside and promised me a silver four-penny piece on the first of every month, if I would only keep my eye open for a seafaring man with one leg, and let him know the moment such a person appeared. How that one-legged man haunted my dreams. On stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the inn, I saw him in a thousand shapes. Sometimes his leg was cut off at the knee, sometimes at the hip. Sometimes he was a monstrous creature who could run like the wind on his single crutch. But as it turned out, the one-legged man was not the first to arrive. The first was a pale, tallowy creature named Black Dog, who had two fingers missing from his left hand. He and the captain had a terrible whispering argument in the parlor that ended in a clash of cutlasses and a shower of broken glass. Black Dog fled into the rain, bleeding from the shoulder, leaving the captain gasping on the floor, his face a dark, dangerous purple. Our village doctor, Dr. Livesy, came to tend to my ailing father, and ended up saving the captain's life as well, warning him that another drop of rum would be his death. But the captain would not listen. He was trapped in a cage of his own secrets. The final blow came on a bitter, frosty afternoon. I was standing at the door of the inn, still weeping for my poor father, who had died only the night before, when I heard the tap, tap, tapping of a stick on the frozen road. Out of the mist came a blind man, wrapped in a tattered cloak with a green shade over his eyes. He was a hunched, dreadful figure. When he reached the door, he caught my hand in a grip of iron. "Lead me to the captain," he whispered, and his voice was cold and hollow. I was too frightened to resist. I led him into the parlor where the captain sat, dazed with rum. The blind man stepped close, pressed something into the captain's open palm, and then, with a speed that defied his blindness, skipped out the door and down the road. I heard his stick go tap, tap, tapping away into the distance. The captain looked at his hand. In his palm lay a small circle of paper, blackened on one side. On the other side was written a single short message. "You have until 10:00 tonight." "The black spot!" the captain cried. He sprang to his feet, but his heart gave out under the terror of it. He reeled, gasped, and fell face first onto the floor. By the time I screamed for my mother, the old captain was dead. We knew we were in terrible danger. The blind man and his gang would return by 10:00 to search the inn. My mother, who was a woman of fierce honesty, insisted we must open the captain's great sea chest to take only what he owed us for his lodging, and not a farthing more. With trembling fingers, I took the key from a string around the dead man's neck. We unlocked the chest. Inside, beneath a suit of very good clothes and a compass, we found a canvas bag filled with gold coins from every corner of the world, doubloons, Louis doors, guineas, and pieces of eight. But at the very bottom lay an oil skin packet tied with a bit of twine. As we counted out the silver to the exact amount of the captain's debt, we heard the distant tap, tap of the blind man's stick on the frozen road. They were coming back early. "Take the packet, Jim!" my mother gasped, "and take the money we've counted!" We fled into the freezing night, hiding under the low arch of a stone bridge, just as a band of armed men, led by the blind man Pew, stormed our inn. Through the darkness, we heard them smashing our furniture, ripping up the beds, and howling with rage when they found the chest had been ransacked. "The boy has it!" Pew screamed. "The boy and the widow! Find them!" But before they could search the road, the sound of galloping horses echoed down the hill. A troop of revenue officers, alerted by the neighbors, had arrived. The pirates scattered into the dark, leaving the blind man stumbling in the road. In his panic, Pew ran directly under the hooves of the oncoming horses. It was a swift, terrible end to a wicked man. That night, safe in the study of the local squire, Mr. Trelawney, alongside the wise Dr. Livesy, I placed the oil skin packet on the table. The squire cut the twine with his pocket knife. Inside was a book of accounts and a map. It was a map of an island, drawn with great care, showing latitude and longitude, sounding depths, and the names of hills and bays. There were three red crosses. Next to one of them, in a small, neat hand, were written the words, "Bulk of treasure here." On the back of the map, the same hand had written, "Tall tree, spyglass shoulder, to the north of north northeast. Skeleton Island, east southeast and by east. 10 feet." The squire struck the table with his fist. "Livesy!" he cried. "We shall fit out a ship in Bristol. I will take Jim here as our cabin boy. You shall be the ship's doctor, and we will find the treasure of the legendary pirate Captain Flint."
In the weeks that followed, I lived in a day dream of blue water, tall ships and tropical islands. The squire went ahead to Bristol to buy a vessel and hire a crew, while I stayed at the doctor's house, studying the map and imagining the dangers that lay ahead. But nothing I imagined could have prepared me for the reality of Bristol. The harbor was a forest of masts. The air smelled of salt, pitch and imported nutmeg. Great ships were being loaded with casks and crates, and sailors with rings in their ears sang as they worked the capstans. The squire met us with grand news. He had bought a beautiful schooner called the Hispaniola, and through a stroke of extraordinary luck, he had found a man to run the ship's galley, a one-legged old sailor who kept a tavern on the docks called the Spyglass. "His name is Long John Silver," the squire told us, his face beaming with excitement. "He lost his leg in the service of his country under the immortal Hawk. He has no pension, but he is a man of substance with a bank account and a clean tavern. He has been of immense help to me, Jim. He helped me weed out the useless sailors I had hired and brought in a crew of the finest, toughest mariners in Bristol." The doctor looked thoughtful. "I do not like the squire choosing a crew without the captain's help," he murmured to me. "But this Silver sounds like a remarkable fellow." The next morning, the squire sent me with a note to the Spyglass. The tavern was bright and clean, filled with the roar of sea voices and the smell of fried fish. As I entered, a man came hopping out of a side room, using a single crutch under his left shoulder with a grace that was beautiful to watch. He was tall and strong, with a face as big as a ham, plain and pale, but smiling and intelligent. He looked like the happiest man alive. "Mr. Silver, sir?" I asked, holding out the note. "Yes, my lad," he said, his voice deep and hearty. "That is my name, surely. And who might you be?" When he saw the squire's letter, he gave a great start. "Ah!" he cried. "You must be our new cabin boy. Well, sir, I am right glad to meet you." Just then, a man at a corner table rose suddenly and bolted out the door. I recognized him instantly. He had a pale, greasy face and was missing two fingers. "Stop him!" I shouted. "It's Black Dog, the man who came to our inn!" Silver's face fell. "Black Dog?" he roared. "I know nothing of any Black Dog. Run, Harry, and catch him. He has not paid for his three mugs of rum. If he is a pirate, he shall not escape from my tavern." Harry and another man ran after him, but Black Dog was too fast and disappeared into the crowded docks. Silver turned back to me, his face full of worry. "This is a bad business, Jim," he said, wiping his brow. "The squire will think I keep company with such scoundrels. But I have seen that man before. He comes here with a blind beggar who smells of gin." "That would be Pew," I said. "Pew!" cried Silver, his eyes wide. "Aye, that was his name. Oh, a bad, bad man. But look here, Jim, we must go straight to the squire and tell him what has happened. We cannot have him doubting old John." As we walked together down the docks, Silver was the most entertaining companion I had ever known. He pointed out the different ships, explaining their rigs and tonnage. He told me stories of the trade winds, of the Spanish coast, and of the great voyages he had made. He seemed to know every sailor we passed, and they all had a respectful word for "Barbecue," which was his nickname among the crew. By the time we reached the squire and the doctor, my doubts were entirely gone. I would have followed Long John Silver to the ends of the earth. He was so clean, so cheerful, and so utterly different from the dirty, drunken pirates who had ruined our inn. Yet, when we boarded the Hispaniola, we found one man who was not smiling. Captain Smollett, our commander, was a sharp, sour-tempered man who made no secret of his anger. He stood on the quarterdeck, looking at the rigging with a dark frown. "I do not like this cruise, Mr. Trelawney," the captain said plainly to the squire. "I do not like the men, and I do not like my officer. I am told we are going after treasure, and I have heard it from my own crew. When we sail for treasure, the secret should be kept in the cabin. But here, every cabin boy knows it." "Do you distrust my crew, captain?" the squire asked, his face turning red. "I do not say that," Smollett replied. "But I say this. If you sail with a crew that knows too much, you must be on your guard. I want the powder and arms moved to the stern of the ship, under our own cabins, and I want the crew's quarters moved forward." The squire was furious, believing the captain was merely rude and suspicious, but Dr. Livesy agreed with the precautions. The changes were made, and at last, the anchor was weighed. The sails filled with a fresh breeze, and the Hispaniola began her long journey across the Atlantic. Throughout the voyage, the ship was run with perfect discipline, and much of that was due to Long John Silver. In the galley, he was a king. He kept his copper pans shining like gold. He had a great green parrot named Captain Flint, after the famous pirate, which sat on his shoulder and screamed, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" with a speed that made us all laugh. "She's a handsome bird, Jim," Silver would tell me, giving the parrot a bit of sugar from his pocket. "She's maybe 200 years old, and she's sailed with the greatest scoundrels on the sea. She's seen enough gold to pave London streets. Haven't you, old girl?" And the parrot would scream, "Stand by to go about!" And Silver would laugh his big, warm laugh and pat me on the shoulder. He was the favorite of the ship. The men would do anything for him, and even the captain had to admit that the cook was a first-rate seaman. I thought him the kindest, bravest man I had ever met.
The voyage was a prosperous one. But as we neared our destination, the air grew thick and heavy with the heat of the tropics. The men were tired, and the captain, to keep them in good spirits, ordered a large barrel of apples to be placed on the deck, so that anyone who wished could help himself. It was the night before we expected to sight land. The moon was bright, and the ship was gliding gently through the dark water. Before going to my hammock, I decided I wanted an apple. The barrel was nearly empty, and to reach the fruit at the bottom, I had to climb right inside. The wood was dark and smelled of cider. As I sat there in the dark, the gentle rocking of the ship made me sleepy, and before I knew it, I had drifted off to sleep. I was awakened by a heavy man sitting down with a grunt against the side of the barrel. The wood vibrated against my back. I was about to jump out, when the man began to speak, and the sound of his voice froze the blood in my veins. It was Long John Silver. "No, not I," Silver was saying to one of the younger sailors, a boy named Dick. "Flint was the captain, and I was the quartermaster. I lost my leg in the same broadside that took old Pew's eyes. But I saved my money, Dick. What becomes of most seamen? They live like kings on a voyage, and when they land, they spend it all in a week and go back to sea in their rags. But not John. I've got my money safe in banks, and my wife has sold the tavern and is waiting for me in a secret place. And when this cruise is done, I'll be a rich gentleman with a carriage to ride in." My heart hammered so loudly against my ribs, I was sure they would hear it. "But what about the captain and the squire?" Dick asked, his voice trembling a little. "What do we do with them?" Silver spat onto the deck. "We wait," he said, and his voice had lost all its warmth. It was cold, hard and deadly. We let them find the treasure, and we let them load it on board. We let the captain sail us halfway home, and then, my lad, we strike." "And what do we do with them then?" Dick asked. "I'm an easy man," Silver murmured, "but this is a serious business. Duty is duty. I say, kill them. When I'm a rich man, I don't want any gentlemen of the law coming after me. We'll maroon them, or we'll cut their throats. Flint would have done it. Billy Bones would have done it." "You're a brave one, John," Dick said, sounding completely won over. "You'll be a brave one too, Dick, when you've got a pocket full of gold," Silver laughed. Another voice joined them. It was Israel Hands, the ship's gunner. "Look here, Barbecue," Hands grumbled. "When are we going to turn on them? I'm tired of Smollett's orders. I want to get into the captain's cabin and drink their fine wines." "You'll wait," Silver hissed, and there was a sudden, terrifying snap in his tone. "You'll wait till I give the word. I'll have no mutiny until the gold is on board. If you can't wait, you'll taste my cutlass, Israel, and that's a promise." Hands grumbled, but he did not argue. "Dick," Silver said, "get up and get me an apple to wet my pipe." I cannot describe the horror that seized me. If Dick reached into the barrel, he would touch my shoulder. I squeezed myself into a ball, my muscles shaking, preparing to fight for my life. "No, John," Hands said. "Let's have some rum instead. Dick, go down and fetch the key to the keg." Dick walked away, and my breath came back to me in a shuddering gasp. A moment later, a voice from the masthead cried out into the night, "Land ho!" The ship came alive with noise. I heard the rush of feet, the shouting of orders, and the heavy thud of Silver's crutch as he hopped toward the bow. I scrambled out of the barrel, my face pale in the moonlight, and slipped into the crowd of sailors who were gathering at the rail. In the distance, rising out of the gray morning mist, were the two low hills and the tall conical peak of Treasure Island. Silver stood at the rail, his arm around Dick's shoulder, pointing out the safe anchorages as if he were the most loyal servant the squire ever had. He looked down and saw me. "Ah, Jim," he said, his face breaking into that wide, handsome smile. "There's the island, my lad. You'll have a fine time exploring those woods. When I was a boy, I loved to climb those hills. It's a grand place for a young fellow." I looked into his clear blue eyes, and for the first time, I saw the monster behind the smile. It was a terrible thing to realize that the man who had been my protector, my teacher, and my friend, was planning to murder me and everyone I cared about. I managed to smile back, though my lips were stiff. "Thank you, John," I said. As soon as I could, I whispered to Dr. Livesy that he, the squire, and the captain must gather in the cabin immediately. I had news that would change everything. In the cabin, under the yellow light of a swinging lantern, I told them every word I had heard from the bottom of the apple barrel. The squire stood up, his face pale. "Captain," he said to Smollett, "you were right, and I was a fool. I lay myself at your feet." "No more a fool than the rest of us, squire," the doctor said. "But what do we do now?" Captain Smollett took off his hat and ran a hand through his gray hair. "We have seven honest men out of 26," he said. "We cannot fight them openly yet. We must wait, watch, and strike when they least expect it. But we have one advantage. They do not know that we know." He turned to me. "Jim, you have saved our lives. The men trust you, and Silver is fond of you. You must be our eyes and ears." The next day, the Hispaniola anchored in a quiet, landlocked bay. The air was hot and sticky, and the island smelled of rotting vegetation and wet sand. The crew was restless and sullen. The smell of the treasure was in their nostrils, and they were growing harder to control. To prevent an immediate mutiny, Captain Smollett gave the men permission to go ashore for the afternoon. As the boats were being loaded, a wild, reckless idea entered my head. Before anyone could stop me, I slipped over the side of the ship and scrambled into one of the boats. I hid myself in the bow, and when we hit the beach, I leaped out and ran into the thick pine woods as fast as my legs could carry me. Behind me, I heard Silver's voice calling, "Jim! Jim!" But I did not look back. I ran until my chest burned, finally slowing to a walk in a quiet valley filled with dwarf oaks. The island was beautiful, with strange, bright flowers and gray-green trees, but it felt like a graveyard. Suddenly, I heard voices. I crawled on my hands and knees into a thicket of brush and looked out. There, in a small clearing, stood Long John Silver and a young sailor named Tom. Silver was trying to persuade Tom to join the mutineers, but Tom was an honest man. "No, John!" Tom cried, his voice ringing with courage. "You're a brave seaman, and you've got money, but you'll not get me to turn pirate. I'd rather lose my hand than betray my captain." Just then, from far across the swamp, a terrible, choking scream echoed through the trees. It was the sound of another honest sailor being murdered. Tom started back. "What was that, John?" he whispered. Silver's smile did not return. His eyes were cold and flat. "That," he said, "that would be Allen." "Allen?" Tom cried. "Then you have killed him! John Silver, you are a murderer, but I will have no part in your wickedness!" Tom turned to walk back to the beach. With a roar, Silver caught a branch of a tree, pulled himself up, and threw his heavy crutch like a spear. It struck poor Tom in the middle of his back with tremendous force. Before Tom could rise, Silver was upon him, his cutlass flashing in the sunlight. I did not wait to see more. I turned and ran, blind with terror, tearing through the briers and the sharp grass. The forest seemed full of monsters. I was alone on a wild island, with a crew of murderers behind me, and no way to get back to the ship. As I ran down the slope of a hill, a shower of gravel rolled down behind me. I stopped, my heart in my mouth. There, behind a pine tree, stood a figure. It was dark and shaggy, and it moved with strange, animal-like hops, darting from trunk to trunk. It looked like a man, but it was clothed in tatters of old ship's canvas, and held together by wild copper buttons. I reached for my pistol, but the figure suddenly ran into the open and threw itself on its knees, clasping its hands together in prayer. "Who are you?" I gasped. "Ben Gunn," the man whispered, his voice hoarse and rusty, like an old rusty lock. "I'm poor Ben Gunn, I am. I haven't spoken to a Christian soul these three years." He had wild, pale eyes, and his skin was burned almost black by the sun. He told me he had been on Flint's ship when the treasure was buried. Three years ago, he had returned on another ship to look for it, but when they could not find it, his crewmates had marooned him, leaving him with nothing but a spade and a pickaxe. "And I've lived on goats and berries ever since, Jim," he said, leaning close. "But my heart is true. Tell me, Jim, is that Flint's ship out there?" "No," I said. "Flint is dead, but some of his crew are on board, and the worst of them is a one-legged man named Silver." Ben Gunn gripped my arm. "The one-legged man!" he whispered. "If you're with him, I'm as good as dead!" "I am not with him," I said quickly. I told him the whole story of our voyage, and of the danger we were in. Ben Gunn listened with great attention, nodding his wild head. "Jim," he said, "I can help you. I found something, something that would make your squire a rich man. But I must have a promise of passage home and a thousand pounds of the money." "The squire will gladly give you that," I said. "But how do we get to you?" "I have a boat," he whispered, pointing toward a distant white rock on the shore. "I made her with my own hands, wood and goat skin. She's hidden under the bank. But look! What is that?" A great boom echoed across the island. A cloud of white smoke rose above the trees, followed by the screaming of sea birds. The battle had begun. I ran toward the sound of the gunfire, leaving Ben Gunn behind in the woods. When I reached the shore, I saw that the doctor, the squire, and the captain had abandoned the Hispaniola. They had managed to transport the arms, powder, and provisions to an old abandoned log house, a stockade built by Captain Flint years before. It was a strong wooden fort, surrounded by a high fence of stout posts, situated on a sandy knoll with a spring of fresh water. I made a dash across the clearing, bullets whistling past my ears, and scrambled over the fence. The doctor welcomed me with open arms, and I told him about Ben Gunn and his hidden boat. But we were in a desperate state. The pirates had taken the ship, and they were now firing her great cannon at our log house. The heavy iron balls crashed through the trees, showering us with pine needles and sand, though the stout walls of the fort held. The next morning, a voice called out from the fog. "Flag of truce! Flag of truce!" We looked out. There, at the edge of the woods, stood Long John Silver. He was dressed in his finest blue coat, and he carried a white cloth on a stick. "Keep inside, men!" Captain Smollett ordered. "Silver, what do you want?" Silver hopped up to the fence, looking clean and cheerful, despite the damp morning. "Captain," he said, "we want that treasure map. You give us the map, and we'll sail you home and set you down safe on some beach. Or if you prefer, we'll leave you here with half our stores and send the first ship we meet to take you off." Smollett looked at him cold and hard. "Is that all?" he asked. "Aye, that's it," Silver said. "Refuse, and you'll taste our lead." "Now you hear me, John Silver," the captain said, leaning over the log wall. If you come up one by one, unarmed, I'll put you in irons and take you back to England for a fair trial. If you don't, you'll find this island is a grave for every man of you. I've got a good fort, and you can't sail the ship. You're lost, Silver, and you know it." Silver's face turned dark with rage. He spat on the ground. "Before an hour is out," he roared, "I'll blow your old log house into the sky!" He hopped away into the woods, his crutch digging deep into the sand. An hour later, the attack came. The pirates swarmed out of the woods like angry wasps. They scrambled over the fence, cutlasses in their teeth. The air was filled with the smoke of pistols, the clash of steel, and the screams of fighting men. I fought with a cutlass, striking out blindly in the smoke. The battle was short and furious. When the air finally cleared, three of our men lay wounded, but five of the pirates were dead, and the rest had fled back into the forest. We had won the day, but we were exhausted, and our water supply was low. That afternoon, while the doctor was tending to the wounded, another reckless plan took hold of me. I thought of Ben Gunn's boat, hidden by the white rock. If I could find it, I might be able to slip out to the Hispaniola under cover of darkness and cut her anchor cable, setting her adrift and stripping the pirates of their greatest weapon. Without telling the others, I slipped out of the stockade and into the woods. It was late evening when I found the white rock. Hidden in a hollow of the bank was Ben Gunn's boat, a tiny coracle-like craft, made of a rough wooden frame covered with goat skins. It was light, but incredibly clumsy, and when I launched it into the surf, it spun like a top. Using a double-bladed paddle, I managed to guide the little coracle out toward the dark shape of the Hispaniola. The tide was running strong, and the ship was straining against her anchor. I reached the thick hemp cable, and using my pocket knife, began to cut. It was hard work, and the strands snapped one by one like pistol shots. As I cut the final strand, the great ship began to swing in the current. Suddenly, from the cabin window above me, I heard a terrible roar of voices. The two pirates left to guard the ship, Israel Hands and a man named O'Brien, were in a drunken fight, too busy trying to kill each other to notice that the ship was drifting. The Hispaniola spun in the tide, dragging my tiny coracle along with her. I was trapped in her shadow. With a sudden lurch, the great ship struck a sandspit, and my little boat was crushed like a walnut. I had only a second to react. I grabbed a dangling rope from the ship's bowsprit and hold myself up, collapsing onto the deck just as the Hispaniola cleared the spit and drifted into the quiet water of the northern bay. The deck was silent. I crept forward. O'Brien lay dead on the planks, killed by his companion. Israel Hands sat against the bulwarks, his leg bandaged, his face pale and wet with sweat. He looked up at me with a weak, painful grin. "You've come aboard, Jim," he whispered. "I reckon, I reckon the ship is yours." "I have come to take possession of this ship, Mr. Hands," I said, trying to sound like Captain Smollett. "Until further orders, you will call me captain." Hands agreed, promising to help me sail the ship into a safe beach if I would give him food and drink. For several hours, we worked together. He was a skilled seaman, and despite his wound, he guided the ship into a quiet, sandy creek where she could be safely grounded. But as we neared the beach, I saw a look in his eyes, a cold, sly look that told me he was only waiting for his chance. I turned away for a second to watch the sails, and in that instant, I saw his shadow move on the deck. I spun around. Hands was coming at me, a long dagger in his hand. I screamed and leaped aside, letting go of the tiller. I reached for my pistol, but the powder was wet, and it misfired. Hands lunged again, his face twisted with rage. I scrambled up the shrouds of the mast, climbing as fast as a monkey, while he followed me, his dagger between his teeth. 30 feet above the deck, I stopped and quickly primed my pistols with dry powder. Hands reached the cross trees. He looked up, his eyes filled with a desperate, murderous light, and threw his dagger. The cold steel struck my shoulder, pinning me to the mast. In the pain and shock of the moment, both of my pistols went off. The shots echoed across the water. Hands let go of the rigging, gave a short cry, and plunged backward into the sea. I watched him sink through the clear water, a pale shape on the sandy bottom, before I managed to pull the dagger from my shoulder. I was wounded, bleeding, and alone, but the ship was safe. I had taken the Hispaniola back. It was dark when I finally scrambled over the fence of the stockade, my shoulder throbbing with pain. The log house was silent and dark. I crept inside, feeling my way through the shadows, glad to be home. Suddenly, a shrill, metallic voice screamed out of the darkness, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" It was Captain Flint, the parrot. Before I could turn to run, a hand caught me by the collar. A torch was lit, and the room was filled with the smoky, red light of pitch pine. I looked round in horror. The doctor, the squire, and the captain were gone. In their place sat six pirates, their clothes dirty and torn, and in the center, his face pale but calm, sat Long John Silver. "Here's Jim Hawkins," Silver said, his voice as smooth as butter. "Well, Jim, you've dropped in on us like an angel from heaven, you have. I always said you were a smart lad." "Where are my friends?" I demanded, my voice shaking. Silver took a drag of his pipe. "They've gone, Jim," he said. "Yesterday morning, the doctor came with a flag of truce. He told me the ship was gone, and indeed, we looked and she was. So we made a bargain. We took the stockade, and they took the woods. They gave us the stores, and they gave us this." He held up the oil skin packet. It was the treasure map. I could not believe my eyes. Why would the doctor give up the map? It made no sense. The other pirates wanted to kill me on the spot, but Silver stood up, his crutch swinging. "No!" he roared. "The boy is mine. He's a brave lad, and he's worth more to us alive than dead. We'll keep him as a hostage." The pirates grumbled, and for a moment, it looked as if they would turn on Silver. They went outside to hold a council, leaving us alone in the log house. Silver turned to me, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Jim," he said, and his face was suddenly full of a desperate, pleading look. "The game is up. The ship is gone, and my men are ready to cut my throat. I know you've got the ship hidden somewhere. I saw it in your face when you walked in. If you save me from the gallows when we get back to England, I'll save you from these butchers now." I looked at him. He was a murderer, a mutineer, and a thief. Yet in his eyes, I saw a strange, desperate kind of friendship. "I will save you if I can, John," I said. The pirates returned and handed Silver a circle of paper, blackened on one side. They had given him the black spot. Silver laughed, tossing the paper aside. "You fools!" he cried, holding up the map. "You give me the black spot, but I've got the map that Flint drew. We go for the treasure tomorrow, and when we have the gold, we'll see who's captain." The sight of the map changed their minds instantly. The pirates cheered, their greed overcoming their anger. The next morning, we set out. I was tied by a rope to Silver's belt, stumbling behind him as he hopped through the woods. The pirates carried spades and picks, their faces bright with the hope of gold. As we climbed the shoulder of the Spyglass Hill, we came upon a strange, terrible sight. At the foot of a tall pine tree, lay a human skeleton. Its bones picked clean by the birds. It was not lying in a natural position. Its arms were raised above its head, pointing like a compass needle toward the northeast. "It's a pointer," Silver whispered, his face turning pale. "That's Allardyce, one of Flint's men. Flint killed him and laid him out to show the way. Oh, Flint was a cold-hearted devil." The pirates grew quiet, looking around the dark woods as if they expected Flint's ghost to appear. Suddenly, from the thicket ahead, a high, trembling voice began to sing. "15 men on the dead man's chest. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum." The pirates stopped dead in their tracks. "It's Flint!" one of them screamed, falling to his knees. "No," Silver muttered, though his brow was wet with sweat. "It's not Flint. Flint is dead, but it's someone, someone who knows that song." The voice called out again, high and thin. "Darby McGraw! Darby McGraw! Fetch after rum, Darby!" "That was Flint's last words!" gasped a pirate named Mary. "It's his ghost, I tell you!" "Ghost or no ghost," Silver roared, his eyes flashing with a sudden, wild courage. "I'm here for the gold. We're within 100 yards of the spot, and I'll not be beaten by a voice in the wind." His courage pulled them forward. We ran through the trees. The pirates shouting as they reached the tall tree marked on the map. But when we reached the spot, we stopped. There was a great excavation in the ground, half filled with sand and grass. At the bottom of the hole, lay a broken pickaxe and several empty wooden packing cases. The treasure was gone. The 70,000 pounds in gold, the wealth of 100 captured ships, had vanished. The five pirates turned on Silver and me, their faces twisted with rage. "You've played us, Silver!" Mary screamed, raising his pistol. But before he could pull the trigger, three musket shots rang out from the thicket. Mary fell dead into the hole, and another pirate dropped beside him. The remaining three turned and fled into the woods. Out of the trees came Dr. Livesy, Gray, and Ben Gunn, their muskets smoking. "Beautifully done, doctor!" Silver cried, taking off his hat. "And Ben Gunn too! To think it was you who found the treasure. You old rascal!" It was true. Ben Gunn had found the skeleton and the treasure two years before. He had carried the gold on his back, coin by coin, to a cave on the north side of the island. The doctor had given Silver the map because he knew it was useless. He had given up the stockade because he knew the gold was safe in Ben Gunn's cave. For three days, we loaded the great treasure of gold onto the Hispaniola. It was a beautiful, glittering mass of coins, and as I packed them into the chests, I thought of the lives that had been lost for them, and the blood that had been spilled. We set sail, leaving the three remaining mutineers on the island with a supply of powder and food. We could not take them back to England to face the gallows, but we could not trust them on board. As we sailed away, we saw them kneeling on the beach, their hands raised in prayer, until the island faded into the blue distance. We made for a port in Spanish America to find a crew to help us sail the ship home. That night, while we were all asleep, Long John Silver made his escape. He took a small sack of gold coins, worth perhaps three or 400 pounds, and slipped away in a shore boat. When we found him gone, the squire was glad to be rid of him, and I must confess, so was I. He had saved my life, and I had saved his, but he was a man who could never be trusted. We returned to England with our treasure, and each of us received a share of the gold. Some spent it wisely, and some spent it foolishly, but for me, the adventure was over. I still have the map, but nothing would ever tempt me back to that island. Sometimes, on stormy nights, when the wind howls around our new home, I wake in a sweat, hearing the sharp, metallic voice of Captain Flint screaming in my ear, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" And in my mind, I still see Long John Silver, hopping along the deck on his single crutch, his face bright with a smile, his hand on my shoulder, telling me what a fine lad I was. He was the most dangerous man I ever met, not because he was cruel, but because he was so easy to love. How do you tell a friend from a danger, when the most charming person aboard is the most dangerous of all? It is a question that has no easy answer, but it is a good one to keep with you as you drift off to sleep and the wind blows soft against your window.